


A Formal Invitation

by emotionalsupportfastcars



Series: Études [2]
Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Mutual Scheming, Shenanigans, Snark, a zillion references to canon, abu dhabi 2020, as per usual, charles leclerc is extra and dramatic but when is he not, some 2020 season feels, some football feels, some pierre-daniil feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 22:55:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28553493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emotionalsupportfastcars/pseuds/emotionalsupportfastcars
Summary: Charles sits on the bed watching the twinkling lights of Yas Marina. Pierre lies on his side watching Charles.Eventually, Charles tires of staring at the lights and turns towards him, pouting. "Do you need a formal invitation to sit next to me?"Pierre snorts and sits up. However, as he begins moving towards Charles, a sudden, wild, hare-brained thought strikes him and he claps his hand to his mouth, desperately trying not to laugh."Actually," he says, schooling his face into a neutral expression before uncovering his mouth. "Yes. I need a formal invitation."Or: Pierre accidentally dares Charles to do a thing. Charles goes the extra mile, and then some more.
Relationships: Pierre Gasly/Charles Leclerc
Series: Études [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2065098
Comments: 14
Kudos: 46
Collections: Winterbreak Writing Challenge (2020)





	A Formal Invitation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scarletred](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarletred/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Restricted Work] by [scarletred](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarletred/pseuds/scarletred). Log in to view. 



> Written for week 1 of scarletred’s winterbreak writing challenge.

It’s the first day in weeks that Pierre’s had nothing to do. 

The season-ending Bahrain-Sakhir-Abu Dhabi triple header meant that for the past 3 weeks, Pierre’s schedule has been nothing but travel, media duties, debriefs, workouts, and actual racing. 

Abu Dhabi was good - he completed a lot of clean overtakes and managed to get past Seb relatively early on in the race, which allowed him to open up a gap ahead of Lance and the others in that DRS train who were stuck behind Seb’s slower Ferrari. By the time Lance finally made it past Seb, there weren’t enough laps for Lance’s Racing Point to charge Pierre down. In fact, it got even better, as Esteban’s epic last-lap overtake on Lance indirectly gifted Pierre P10 in the driver’s standings thanks to countback rules.

Pierre wonders whether it would be awkward to send a text to Esteban. They did talk briefly after the race, but their relationship remains... complicated, to say the least.

Pierre suddenly remembers that Esteban is Lance’s best friend on the grid. Of course, on track, everyone’s a rival and no one’s a friend. But still...

On second thought, that text is _definitely_ not a good idea.

The chequered flag at Abu Dhabi signalled the end of season-long FIA-mandated Covid bubbles. Thus, the moment drivers and senior management finished their media duties and everyone else finished packing up cars and equipment for the long journey back to the factories, everyone began carrying out long-awaited plans to hang out in person. 

Pierre knows that without Covid bubbles, they might not have been able to race, or the season might’ve been cut short early. 

It doesn’t mean he's found it easy.

The logic went like this. In order to prevent outbreaks spreading rapidly amongst team members, teams went the extra mile. Thus, instead of team-sized bubbles, everyone was assigned to a sub-bubble that was kept as small as possible. For example, Pierre’s and Dany’s garages weren’t allowed to interact in person unless absolutely necessary, such as when mechanics from both garages joined forces to perform pitstops.

Everything that didn’t involve in-person physical activity was done over radio or Zoom. Post-race debriefs were not spared, and it was so _weird_ to attend a debrief in which Pierre sat opposite his laptop and stared at is screen as people took turns to share their screens over Zoom.

And since drivers were the hardest to replace, they were put into the smallest and most isolated bubbles. This season, going to the factory felt like visiting a ghost town. Pierre barely saw anyone because they’d all been instructed to avoid him as much as possible. 

Pierre understands the logic.

He also doesn’t know what he’d have done without his laptop and the Internet because he’s been so damn lonely all alone in his apartment.

There was a giant Alpha Tauri celebration last night to celebrate their best season ever stretching back to the team’s Minardi days. And now that both garages were allowed to interact beyond the bare minimum, Pierre could finally, _finally_ spend time with Dany in person outside media duties and quick moments in the paddock.

The party ended at close to 3am, but he and Dany ended up hanging out in Dany’s room until it was almost dawn, talking about anything but racing.

Dany showed Pierre a zillion videos of his daughter, talked about the books he'd been reading lately, and tried to teach Pierre more rude Russian phrases. Pierre talked Dany’s ear off about anything and everything that came into his mind, just as he had done for the past one-and-a-half years.

After all Dany's done for him since he rejoined Toro Rosso, Pierre considers Dany his brother in all but blood.

Pierre even successfully cajoled Dany into strumming some Metallica for him.

Dany flew back to Monaco earlier today, and Pierre wonders when he’ll next see Dany in person. After all, Yuki replacing Dany is probably the paddock’s worst-kept secret.

A loud sound breaks Pierre’s train of thought. 

Oh. His alarm. 

Pierre rolls out of bed, changes into the first clean clothes he spies in his suitcase, and heads down to the lobby to meet Charles for a long-overdue dinner.

The food is delicious and its nice to finally be able to talk to Charles face-to-face for more than a minute at a time. However, since the restaurant is fairly crowded and Pierre has to remove his mask to eat, the entire experience is surprisingly anxiety-inducing. Lewis made it back in record time to race Abu Dhabi and still managed a podium, but the entire paddock saw the physical toll that Covid-19 had taken on the grid's best driver.

Charles is half-drunk by the time they leave the restaurant, so Pierre manoeuvres him into the taxi, crosses himself, and prays that Charles won't throw up.

Luckily, all Charles does is use Pierre's shoulder as a pillow.

The moment they get back to the hotel, Pierre herds Charles into the room, forces him to drink an entire bottle of water, and kicks him into the shower. Job done, Pierre surveys the mess that his room has become over the past few days and starts packing his life back into a suitcase.

By the time Pierre’s done showering, Charles has mostly sobered up. Charles sits on the bed watching the twinkling lights of Yas Marina. Pierre lies on his side watching Charles.

Eventually, Charles tires of staring at the lights and turns towards him, pouting. "Do you need a formal invitation to sit next to me?"

Pierre snorts and sits up. However, as he begins moving towards Charles, a sudden, wild, hare-brained thought strikes him and he claps his hand to his mouth, desperately trying not to laugh.

"Actually," he says, schooling his face into a neutral expression before uncovering his mouth. "Yes. I need a formal invitation."

Pierre reaches Charles and curls up next to him. He wraps his arm around Charles’ back and presses a kiss to Charles' bicep, just to make sure that Charles knows Pierre's just teasing him. 

When Pierre looks up, Charles is watching him fondly, but both of Charles’ eyebrows are raised in a challenge. So Charles knows that Pierre's teasing him... and Charles has decided that the game is _on_.

  


* * *

  


They spend the next day holed up together in Pierre’s hotel room, knowing that they won’t see each other until next year.

That night, Pierre flies home to France to see his family for the first time since the 2020 season restarted. Charles flies home to Monaco, does laundry, and packs a bunch of clothes before walking to his childhood home.

  


* * *

  


It's 2021. 

Pierre’s spending two weeks in Monaco and is determined to spend it doing absolutely nothing other than make up for his lack of physical contact with Charles last year thanks to quarantine and Covid bubbles.

Pierre arrived yesterday evening to a surprise candlelight dinner, spent the rest of it wrapped around Charles in various ways, and has barely left Charles’ side since, so he’s off to a good start.

“I got you something,” says Charles, walking over to where Pierre’s lounging on the sofa watching PSG’s first match of the year and trying not to have a heart attack. Sometimes, his beloved football team brings him nothing but pain.

Pierre drags his eyes away just as PSG somehow manages to sabotage themselves yet again and blinks at Charles. They already exchanged belated Christmas presents yesterday, after all.

Charles presents him with an envelope. “For you,” he says, simply.

Pierre takes the envelope and almost drops it because he doesn’t expect it to be this heavy. What is inside?

He tightens his grip on the envelope and flips it over in his hands. No markings of any sort - just a smooth satiny expanse of pearl-coloured paper. 

The envelope is not sealed - its upper flap is delicately tucked into its bottom flap. Pierre carefully untucks the upper flap and lifts it up to reveal a thick card. Pearl-coloured, just like the envelope it is housed in. Pierre slides the card out and places the envelope on the coffee table in front of him.

The card is covered with delicate floral-patterned lace. Pierre runs his fingers over the lace cutouts, eyes widening when he realises that they’re made out of shimmery gold cardstock. He slowly turns the card from side to side, mesmerised by the way the iridescent gold seems almost three-dimensional as it catches the light, causing different colours to flash across the surface in a hypnotising dance. 

Shining, shimmering, splendid.

“What -” he manages.

“Go on,” prompts Charles, watching him closely.

The shimmery cardstock lace is designed to resemble two symmetrical doors that open down the middle. Pierre gently tugs open the lace doors and stares. And stares some more.

There are intricate lace patterns emanating from all four corners of the card. The patterns are hand-drawn with shimmery iridescent gold ink that seems to come alive as the light hits it from different angles.

At the top of the card, Charles' ‘CL’ driver’s logo is written in navy, surrounded by a thin circular border of more elaborate hand-drawn gold lace. Styled like this, Charles’ initials look more like a monogram than a logo.

And just below it, in smooth jet-black ink, are words in flawless French-style calligraphy.

Charles Marc Hervé Perceval Leclerc  
formally invites  
Pierre Gasly  
to sit next to him  


The letters are elaborately and delicately written - the curved lines flow expertly into each other. The capitalised letters are adorned with extra curls and flourishes, as is the norm for this sort of thing. As the invited party, Pierre's name is larger than the other words, just as it would be in an actual formal invitation.

All in all, it resembles the sort of thing one would send for an extravagant wedding, an international gala, or a black-tie event with the President.

Pierre lifts the card up to examine the writing, which is a work of art, really, and suddenly catches a familiar scent. Did Charles actually - 

Pierre brings the card to his nose and - shit - Charles really did that, how excessive can Charles _be_ \- and carefully places the card on the table so that he can start giggling without accidentally crushing the card. His giggles turn into outright cackles and he laughs and laughs and laughs because Charles, the drama king, has only gone and scented the card with _Pierre’s favourite cologne_.

Pierre throws his head back and leans back and laughs and laughs until he loses his balance and rolls onto his back, legs waving in the air as he continues cackling in between gasping for breath.

“I hope you know just how dramatically _extra_ you are,” he manages in between peals of laughter. He tries to sit up and fails spectacularly, falling back onto the sofa in a fit of giggles.

Charles glares down at him, hands on hips. “You asked for it!"

Pierre struggles to catch his breath.

“I did.” Pierre manages to gasp out the words. He forces himself to stop laughing long enough to take a proper breath and to compose himself a little. "I did and I thought you’d get me a card but I never thought you'd -”

The scent hits his nostrils again - just how much did Charles spray on the card? - and once again, Pierre dissolves into giggles.

“Charles -” he gasps in between giggles, shaking his head in disbelief. He manages to catch Charles eyes and watches as the fake outrage on Charles’ face morphs into one of immense pride and mischief.

“I thought - you want formal? I’ll show you formal, _asshole_ ,” is all Charles manages before he too cracks up laughing.

For a while, their raucous laughter and frantic gasps for breath are the only sounds that Pierre hears, and it takes a while before both of them calm down enough to stop setting the other person off again with a stray giggle. By the time Pierre's stopped laughing, his cheek muscles ache and his eyes are full of tears.

Now that he's a little less prone to giggling fits, Pierre leans forward and picks up the card to properly examine it. He blinks away tears, traces the letters with his finger, and marvels at the artist's skill and elegant lines, which are a complete contrast to Pierre's own hurried scrawl.

Pierre knows it isn't polite to ask, but it's _Charles_ , so... “How much did this cost, anyway?”

“A lot”, admits Charles, rubbing his eyes, which are also wet with tears from his earlier laughing fits.

“I commissioned it, obviously,” he continues. “The gold ink is expensive and everything's handwritten. The lace doors are cut with actual laser. But your reaction - I should’ve filmed it.” Charles' lips are twitching again. “ _So_ worth it,” concludes Charles, dissolving into giggles once again.

Pierre stifles a laugh because ow - his cheek muscles are really protesting their sudden and intense workout - and runs his fingers over the delicate lace patterns again.

He looks up at Charles. “Go big or go home?”

Charles nods in smug satisfaction. “Exactly.”

He steps forward and plucks the card from Pierre’s hands. “I got two copies just in case, which worked out because I screwed up the first one spraying your cologne on it. Sprayed too much at once and the ink started running.” 

Pierre rolls his eyes and wonders how much cologne he has left because Charles _definitely_ made use of the bottle that Pierre keeps in Charles' bedroom. As Charles passes the card back to him, Charles’ name catches his eye and he once again comments on its length.

“It's my full name, you know that,” defends Charles. “Formal invitations use full names. It's not my fault you don't have a middle name."

“Why do you have three middle names anyway?” Pierre shakes his head. “I think the only people with three are royalty?” He pulls out his phone and begins typing.

“Yeah,” says Pierre, after a moment. “Listen. Prince William Arthur Philip Louis Mountbatten-Windsor. Three middle names. Just like you.” 

“Don't you start," grumbles Charles. “Filling out official documents is always a pain in the ass.”

"Sure you're not royal?” teases Pierre.

Charles raises both eyebrows, waiting for the punchline. 

“Well, you're the prince of my heart," grins Pierre, ready for Charles’ witty rejoinder.

Instead, Charles turns away and ducks his head. Confused, it takes Pierre a few moments to realise where Charles’ thoughts went to.

Oh. Oops.

Pierre stands up and cradles Charles' hands between his own, squeezing them gently.

“I meant it as a really bad pun," he admits. "But if I think about it seriously, it's true, anyway. You _are_ the prince of my heart, okay?”

Charles still doesn't say anything, so Pierre pulls him into a hug. Charles hides his face against Pierre's shoulder, and clutches Pierre’s shirt between his fingers. Pierre strokes Charles' back and waits for Charles to say something.

“Pierre,” says Charles, eventually, his voice slightly muffled by Pierre's shoulder. “I think you gave me diabetes.”

Safe in the knowledge that Charles didn't misinterpret his words, Pierre relaxes completely and hums in satisfaction.

“Like it?” he murmurs, letting his index finger trace circles on Charles' back.

Charles still doesn't look up, but he lets go of Pierre’s shirt, wraps his arms around Pierre, and starts feathering kisses on Pierre's neck.

Pierre shivers at the sensation and forgets all about PSG playing like absolute crap - an achievement on Charles’ part, really - and once again, they end up in the bedroom _much_ earlier than planned.

Pierre can’t think of a better way to end the day.

  


* * *

  


Pierre spends breakfast wondering what to do with the card. He knows Charles meant it as a dramatic joke to prove a point, but Pierre really wants to carry the card with him as a reminder of his own ‘prince of my heart’ joke that unexpectedly turned into something much sweeter thanks to the way Charles' brain worked.

Yeah. Pierre is a sap. Whatever. So is Charles, and Charles started it.

Unfortunately, the card really isn’t wallet-sized and Pierre doesn’t want to risk squashing it at the bottom of whatever backpack he carries around during the season. 

He ends up taking multiple well-lit photographs of the card and its envelope at various angles and organises the photos into an album. The physical items can live on his dresser at home.

Satisfied with his work, Pierre places both items on top of Charles’ piano for temporary safekeeping. 

Charles finds out about the photos and requests a copy. Pierre promptly shares the album with Charles’ email. As Pierre swipes through the photos once again, a plan begins to form in his mind.

  


* * *

  


Pierre flat-out refuses to leave the apartment for dinner because he can’t play footsie with Charles under the table in public and Pierre is not wasting a second of his precious two weeks in Monaco. 

Charles gives in and orders delivery. Satisfied, Pierre spends dinner annoying and amusing Charles with footsie.

As usual, they wash the dishes together. Charles wanders off after he’s finished his part. Pierre finishes wiping down the sink and leaves the kitchen.

Charles is sitting at the corner of the sofa. His eyes are closed. The perfect opportunity for Pierre to carry out his plan.

Pierre smirks and fiddles with his phone before quietly tiptoeing over to Charles and sitting down right next to him. Pierre’s close enough that part of him is almost on top of Charles.

Charles gasps. His eyes fly open.

“Hello,” says Pierre, innocently.

Charles huffs.

“Move,” says Charles, trying to elbow Pierre in the ribs. “You’re squashing me.”

Pierre presses his right palm into the sofa and plants his feet firmly on the ground in order to survive Charles' determined onslaught.

“I have the right to sit here,” he replies, still the absolute picture of innocence. He keeps his eyes on Charles, whose face is scrunched up in annoyance.

Charles elbows him harder, shoving his weight against Pierre. “ _Move._ ”

Pierre unlocks his phone and passes it to Charles. “You invited me,” he points out.

Charles snatches the phone with the arm that’s not trapped against Pierre’s torso and looks at the screen. Pierre smirks as Charles’ eyes light up in recognition before narrowing once again in annoyance.

“See,” says Pierre, smugly. “A formal invitation. A very formal invitation from Charles Leclerc. Hand-calligraphed.”

Charles hmphs and elbows Pierre again. “It invited you to sit next to me. Not to squash me.”

Just to troll Charles a little more, Pierre leans on him for a moment, making Charles screech, before moving away to give Charles enough room to sit without touching Pierre.

“Annoying,” grumbles Charles, massaging his right arm. “Do I have to specify everything?”

Pierre really _really_ wants to say yes. Except - yesterday, Charles proved that he’s by far the most dramatic and extra person on the entire planet.

Now that Pierre knows the lengths that Charles is willing to go to in order to prove a point, he wouldn’t be surprised if Charles ended up commissioning a legally valid document to list, in excruciatingly specific detail, the many ways in which Pierre is not allowed to squash him. 

Then Charles, the drama king, would probably get that document hand-calligraphed on parchment or on something equally outrageous. Knowing Charles, he’d probably use up the rest of Pierre’s cologne to scent the damn thing too, just because. And to top it all off, Charles would definitely find some dramatic way to present the final result to Pierre.

Best to avoid tempting Charles.

“Nah,” says Pierre, aloud. “Just wanted to annoy you.”

Charles pulls a face.

“Annoying,” he repeats. But he finishes massaging his arm, scoots next to Pierre, and tugs Pierre towards him for affectionate kisses. So really, Charles loves Pierre’s annoying ways.

Just as Pierre loves Charles’ dramatic ways.  
  
  
  
  


* * *

**Author's Note:**

>  **notes**  
>  • This was supposed to be 500 words _maximum_ and one (1) scene of Charles Leclerc and his Formal Invitation because I read @scarletred's line "Do you need a formal invitation to sit next to me?" and laughed, then wanted to know what that invitation would look like.  
> • An accidental sequel to [Another Summer](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28189353) because their dishes routine is the same in both fics and Charles naturally falls asleep on Pierre’s shoulder.  
> • The invitation itself should have a different font and be on a different-coloured background with a drop shadow. I tested it on desktop and mobile. If it doesn't work for you, please let me know.
> 
>  **some slang meanings, just in case**  
>  • ‘playing footsie’ is slang for flirting by using your feet to touch someone else’s feet  
> • ‘extra’ is slang for excessive, dramatic behaviour
> 
>  **some canon references**  
>  • Yes, that is Charles' actual name. Wiki links to an interview with him. In the invitation, his full name is supposed to be on one line but if you're on mobile, it will probably wrap to 2-3 lines because... mobile screens are too narrow for Charles' full name.  
> • To watch Pierre laugh hysterically, look up 2016's Best of Prema and skip to 6m40s. There is bonus Antonio. You’re welcome.  
> • Dany has taught Pierre some Russian. Look up Dany's Russian survival guide.
> 
>  **irl timeline**  
>  11-13 Dec 2020: Abu Dhabi GP.  
> 06 Jan 2021: PSG’s first 2021 match. They drew 1-1. Pierre is a giant PSG fanboy. The main part of the fic is set during the match. I’m a sucker for accuracy, so I waited until the match happened in real life so I could add the details to the fic. 
> 
> **thank yous**  
>  • Thanks for letting me write an entire fic from your one line and for discussing this fic with me, Scarlet!  
> • Thanks to F for giving me ideas for Charles’ invitation by spamming me with invitation pics  
> • And thanks so much to you, the reader, for reading! I'd love to hear what you think, and I will definitely reply. I'm at @whatdidwejustdo on tumblr if you prefer that. Happy new year! May 2021 be kind to you. <3


End file.
